


Hemotoma Heart

by magdalyna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bruises, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magdalyna/pseuds/magdalyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles guards his bruises for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hemotoma Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For okubyo_kitsune

It’s not like he felt this way all his life. Sure, he and Scott would get into scrapes and fall out of trees and bruises would bloom on his pale, freckled skin like poisonous flowers, blue and black and mottled yellow green purple.

But sometime between puberty and werewolves he started wanting them. Bruises. 

And he gets more than his fair share of them now, now that every kind of supernatural creature seems drawn to Beacon Hills like it’s Cancun during Spring Break. 

He gets them from the people he knows too. Like Jackson and Erica and Issac and Scott, and once even Boyd, and by a comical accident from Allison. They don’t know their own strength or they don’t care, but Stiles isn’t complaining. 

But he gets them especially from Derek. 

When Derek wants information from him or to shut him up, which dude, is never gonna happen, or when he’s frustrated. 

The press of a touch against a fresh mark makes him fight down a flush of arousal from his toes to his hair, Christ. 

And Derek touches him a lot. 

He is careful about the locker room these days, because it seems like his body is just one giant, pulsing bruise, waiting for him to touch and prod and probe. And he really doesn’t want to have to try and explain away his marked up body to his dad, because that would be awkward and also dangerous. The bruises are a key to their secret, he knows _he’s_ the key to their secret. 

And he knows Derek has to smell it on him, Scott had managed to confirm that in a quiet moment before everything with Peter went to hell. 

But the bruises are _his_ alone, the key to his lock, to his _mind_ and he’s not going to bring it up before Derek does. He deserves them for all he does for the pack, for Scott, for _Derek_. Derek owes him.

So when he’s naked flat on his back on his bed, pushing his dick into the tight circle of his hand, and slowly presses down into the blotch of a bruise in the center of his chest, _crossbow kickback_ , with the flat edge of his palm, it’s his reward. 

It had been a tough few days. 

His hand is just a little slick with his spit, he wants the soft burn of it along with the dull throb he’s provoking, and he’s so close to the edge of his orgasm. He can feel it curling low in his stomach, almost ready to furl out into his spine. 

He’s groaning a little, which is probably why he didn’t hear the _snick_ of his window being pulled up and open, didn’t notice Derek climbing in like a ninja. 

A harsh intake of breath draws his attention though, and the shock is enough to send him over the edge. Well crap. 

Because while he was touching his chest, there were plenty of other places on his body right now he could have been pressing on. And Derek can see all of his bare front, the sides of him, the bruises curling out from his back and stomach like a bodice. 

Derek looks a little shell shocked, like he didn’t just watch a spastic teenager shoot all over himself. A spastic teenager who’s covered in bruises. And _jerking off_ with them. 

Stiles can’t help it if he sounds petulant when he snaps out “Is there something you wanted?” as he rolls over on his side, looking for tissues. 

Derek just stares as Stiles cleans up, and seems to snap back to himself when Stiles glares daggers at him. 

“I need you to look up Selkies.” Derek looks really uncomfortable right now, his jaw working. 

“Okay, you can leave now.” Stiles is tired. 

“Are you alright?” And Derek really looks uncomfortable right now, carefully looking at anything but Stiles. 

They are so not having this conversation now or ever. Not like this. Because if Derek wants to confront him about his bruises, he damn well better man the fuck up.

“Peachy. Next time you ask, which is absolutely not going to be soon, grow a pair, would you? Now get the fuck out.” Stiles says, voice steel. 

And Derek leaves, just like that. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that. 

It’s after the Selkie and the wendigo and the chupacabra, his skin gone a mottled yellow all over, that Derek actually grows a pair. 

It’s been almost seven months, so Stiles kind of forgets about his challenge. Or carefully not thinks about it when he jerks off, which is totally the same thing. 

Derek slinks into his room through his window, because Derek always slinks into his room through his window. Any other way would just be weird. 

“You’re still covered in bruises.” Derek states, just like that. No ‘hello, how are you?’; just says it.

“You still state the obvious.” Stiles counters, because he can. 

Derek stalks closer to him. Stiles can feel his heart thumping faster. 

“You still touch them when you touch yourself.” Derek’s voice is calm, like velvet over barbed wire. Stiles swallows. 

“Still stating the obvious.” Stiles points out. 

“You stink of arousal whenever we’re together. Like now.” And Derek is pushing him up against his closet, crowding him. And fuck if Stiles isn’t hard right now. 

“What are you going to do about it? Talk me into boredom induced death?” Stiles spits out. 

And Derek has a hand at his side, where there is a spectacular bruise that kinda reminds Stiles of a map of Middle Earth. He presses into it and Stiles arches into the touch, the cleansing painsparkfire of it. 

“I wasn’t thinking about talking, actually.” Derek explains, and then is biting a line up Stiles’ neck, turning it into a kiss. Derek’s trying his level best to _eat_ his mouth, and the pressure on the mark is on the edge of good and bad and Stiles comes in his pants. 

He slumps against his closet and Derek draws away, grinning like he got the cream _and_ the canary. Or something. He’s not a wereleopard.

“I never told you how gorgeous you looked, naked and covered in bruises. Like a painting, all those colors on your body.” Derek says causally, like he isn’t saying something he has to know will effect Stiles to his core. 

“Oh?” Stiles manages to say, not as cool, but verging on calm. Hopefully. 

Derek leans in close. “I think next time, you should let me see all of them. Let me lend a hand.” His smile is all teeth.

Stiles breathes out through his nose. “Alright.” And his voice is calm, actually. Like he and Derek didn’t just agree to something he has no idea the scope of. 

Derek gives a quick nod and turns, almost blurs across the room and out of the window.

Stiles closes his eyes, thumbs over a small mark on his left bicep, grounding himself. 

Maybe Derek has a key all his own.


End file.
